Colt turned red, and Number One laughed out loud when Pike said, “Attraction? Jealousy? What are you talking about?”
The Eremoid clapped his hands over his mouth.
“Humans are notoriously unaware of their own interpersonal relationships,” Spock said. He stepped toward Verka and held his hand out toward his forehead. “As are you, it would seem. May I?”
Verka shivered, but he lowered his hands and said, “Go ahead.”
Spock pressed his fingers to the Eremoid’s temples and cheekbones and closed his eyes. A few seconds passed, then he lowered his hand and nodded. “As I suspected. You are a projective empath.”
“Me? Empathic? Hah!”
“You are. And if all Eremoids share your ability, it is no wonder you don’t get along. Your emotions would amplify each other in an uncontrolled feedback loop.”
“That … certainly would explain things,” said Verka. “But what can we do about it?”
Spock said, “You have already evolved coping mechanisms. Your custom of living separately, and your custom of banning others from your homes, keep you separated so you cannot kill one another even when your anger builds enough to make you want to do so.”
Verka said, “But I don’t want to live alone! I want to spend my life with my one true love.”
Pike said, “Then you’ll have to learn how to defuse your emotions before they can build up to lethal proportions.”
“Yes, but how? I’ve seen you do it, but I still don’t understand it!”
Pike felt himself growing frustrated, but he knew it wasn’t an honest emotion. Nevertheless, he let it build to the bursting point, then shouted, “By giving yourself a release valve to blow off steam, you idiot! And a little self-discipline would do you a world of good, too.”
He could have heard a pin drop. No one on the bridge even dared breathe—except the Eremoid, and he was too stunned to speak.
Then he found his voice and shouted back, “Idiot? Self-discipline? You’re the idiot! Haven’t you been listening to your own science officer? I can’t do that. My people’s empathic power—our empathic curse—makes every argument escalate into mayhem!”
Indeed, the bridge crew were all looking like they would like to blast the Eremoid into a smoking ruin right where he stood, and Pike felt the urge just as much, but he pitched his voice as softly and reasonably as he could manage and said, “Does it really?”
“Yes, it does!” Verka gripped the handrail beside Pike’s chair with trembling hands.
“Even this one?”
“What?”
“Why haven’t you killed me?” Pike asked.
The Eremoid stopped. He obviously wanted to, but not quite enough to actually do it. That realization stunned him so much that he lowered his voice and asked, “Because your anger doesn’t amplify mine?”
“That’d be my guess.” Pike waited a moment for him to calm down still further, then said, “Feel better now?”
“I … yes, actually, I do.” He released his grip on the handrail. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? How did you know that would happen?”
“Experience. Experience you don’t have. Spock was right when he told you that we humans sometimes use our anger as a way to say what’s really on our minds without actually fighting. You’ve learned to avoid conflict entirely, but there can be value in conflict. You just need to learn how to use it to your advantage.”
Verka slowly nodded. “He said your relations actually improve after you argue. Can this be true?”
“Well, what do you think of me now? Am I still an idiot?”
“Perhaps not,” Verka allowed. “But you haven’t solved my problem, either.”
“No? What do you think would happen if you called your former lover an unfaithful homewrecker?”
“We would fight to the death.”
“What if you did it from here?”
“What?”
“There’s got to be a limit to your empathic range. I’m guessing we’re well beyond it.”
The Eremoid tilted his head, thinking it over; then he said wonderingly, “We could fight on purpose. Get it over with while we can’t kill one another. But do you really think that would solve anything? Wouldn’t we just kill one another the moment we get back together?”
“Maybe. Or maybe by the time you get together again your empathic ability will reinforce a more … appropriate emotion.”
Verka nodded. “Perhaps. I—I believe it might be worth a try. If you will excuse me, I think I would like to handle this in the privacy of my quarters.”
Pike laughed. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.” Verka turned away, and Pike made a mental note to warn the Federation to deal with the Eremoids from a safe distance from now on, but Verka turned back around and looked at Pike, Number One, and Colt. “Good luck to you three as well.”
“It’s not—I mean—you don’t under…” Pike stammered, but Number One said, “Methinks the captain doth protest too much. Come on, Yeoman, let’s go claw each other’s eyes out over a drink.”
She stood up from the helm, took Colt’s arm, and the two of them stepped into the turbolift, walking sinuously enough to get themselves arrested on some planets. Number One turned sideways and leaned back against the turbolift wall, “Permission to leave the bridge?”
“Granted,” Pike said. “Gladly.” He rolled his eyes and turned back to the Eremoid. “See what you’ve started?”
“Started? Me? Are you insinuating—?”
“Never mind.”
Captain James T. Kirk
U.S.S. Enterprise
“No man achieves Starfleet command without relying on intuition, but have I made a rational decision? Am I letting the horrors of the past distort my judgment of the present?”
James T. Kirk, Star Trek
MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN
There is little question that Mike is one of the busiest and most prolific authors in this collection. Word for word, he may be matched by Peter David, but no one has time to count their annual output for comparison. One reason for Mike’s productivity is that he enjoys exploring the various aspects of the Star Trek universe; he always tries to find something new to say about our beloved characters. Here he stretches himself with his approach to Kirk, a character he has written on numerous occasions in both hard- and softcover.
In most cases, Kirk is always seen as the leader of the crew or as the Id in the Id-Ego-Superego triumvirate with Spock and Dr. McCoy. Here, though, Mike focuses solely on the captain in a situation that calls for a unique combination of his considerable skills. But Kirk being Kirk, there is of course a woman involved.
Mike has written original fantasy novels but has lately concentrated on writing the largest number of prose works based on licenses. His name can be found on books featuring Batman, Wishbone, the Silver Surfer, the X-Men, and in 2001, Star Wars.
While Diane Carey enjoys being part of a crew on older ships, Mike prefers the solitude of smaller, modern-day sailboats. On those rare occasions he can get away from his home, Mike can be found on the Long Island Sound.
While still trying to figure out how to program his VCR, Mike does find time to root for the New York Yankees and is Rules Committee chairman for the Federal League, another excursion into the world of fantasy—this time baseball.
The Avenger
Captain Jim Kirk looked at the dead woman’s face. Her skin was pale even for a Draq’s, her bronze hair spread out on her large, purple pillow like an exotic sea creature.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Deffen Jakol, the heavyset, golden-haired commander of the Draqqi space station, heaved a sigh that tested the confines of his tight-fitting, dark blue uniform. Like all of his people, he had eyes that were oversized by human standards and his skin had a faintly lavender tint to it.
“Apparently,” said Jakol, “she arrived in our station’s bar sometime before eighteenth cycle last night. She spoke to several people, most of them
males, and certain … overtures were made. For one reason or another, none of them came to fruition.”
Kirk nodded. “Go on.”
“Finally, at about nineteen cycles, she finished her last cocktail and left the bar. It seems she left alone, though no one there was entirely sure about that. A Pandrilite said he saw her in the corridor outside her quarters at about twenty cycles … but by his own admission, he was rather inebriated at the time.”
“Then what?” asked Kirk.
“Then she came back here, to her quarters.”
The captain looked around at the place. It was well furnished by Draqqi standards, purples and blues predominating in the choice of wall and floor coverings as well as in the plush, low-slung array of furniture.
The dead woman was wearing a translucent Draqqi sleeping robe with a delicately brocaded bodice. Kirk turned to the commander. “She dressed for bed before she was killed,” he observed.
“So it seems,” said Jakol.
“Do we have any idea how the murderer got in?”
“None at all,” said the Draq. “Nor do we know whether she was surprised to see him. With all she had had to drink, it’s possible she didn’t even know he was there.”
Kirk’s gaze fell on the ugly dark spot on the woman’s gown, which radiated from a point just above her bodice. “But we do know that she was stabbed,” he told Jakol.
The commander frowned. “Yes … once, through the heart.”
The captain looked up at the velvet-papered wall directly above the victim’s corpse. There were five distinct characters scrawled there, written in the victim’s blood. Kirk approached them.
He had been stationed on Draqqana for a couple of months early in his career, when he was serving as a lieutenant on the Farragut. And though a good ten years had passed, he was still able to read Draqqi without too much difficulty.
“Estheen,” he said out loud. The captain mulled the word over for a moment. “Was that her name?”
Jakol shook his head. “No. It’s a name, all right, but not hers. She was called Mani Begron.”
“And you say she was a diplomatic envoy to the Iach’tu?”
“Yes,” the commander confirmed. “And unfortunately, very much a key player in the peace negotiations.”
Kirk swore beneath his breath. The peace negotiations were what had brought him back to this sector of space. His orders from Starfleet Command were to see them completed at any cost.
Nor was it difficult for the captain of the Enterprise to understand his superiors’ resolve. Six years earlier, the Draqqi had been conquered by the Iach’tu and subjected to all manner of cruelty.
Had Draqqana been a member of the United Federation of Planets, it would never have happened. However, the Draqqi were a fiercely independent people. Even after they threw off the Iach’tu yoke of oppression, they refused to join the Federation.
Finally, a Dopterian ambassador gained the Draqqi’s confidence and convinced them to sign a treaty with their enemies, arguing that it was only a matter of time before the more powerful Iach’tu were again tempted by Draqqana’s ample resources. What’s more, the negotiations had gone more smoothly than anyone had dared hope.
Until now.
Kirk had studied forensics like everyone else at the academy, but he was hardly an expert on why and how people murdered each other. His only real expertise was in getting the best out of a crew of more than four hundred men and women as they explored the vastness of space.
As a result, he felt very much like a fish out of water at the moment. But then, it wasn’t the first time he had been compelled to exceed the traditional role of a starship captain.
Kirk considered the corpse again. “Can she be replaced?” he asked.
Jakol shrugged. “Not easily.”
“Not easily at all,” came a voice.
The captain glanced at the voice’s owner. She was Draqqi, female and undeniably attractive, her dark eyes and darker hair a complement to her full, lavender lips and pale, perfect skin. The insignia on her uniform identified her as the station’s security chief.
But to his surprise, Kirk didn’t need any help identifying her. And judging by the look on her face, she didn’t need any help identifying him.
Commander Jakol indicated his colleague with a gesture. “Captain Kirk, I would like to introduce—”
“Subcommander Orisa Jilain,” Kirk finished without thinking.
Jakol looked at the captain, then at the security chief. “I take it you two know each other?”
Orisa nodded. “We’ve met.”
Memories surged in Kirk’s mind. Only one of them was unpleasant—the day he had said good-bye to her.
“We have indeed,” the captain agreed.
Before Orisa could say anything else, they were approached by Kirk’s chief medical officer. Doctor McCoy had beamed over with the captain to examine the murder victim and see if he could offer any insights.
He had never met Orisa, but he appeared to sense that there was something between her and Kirk. After all, McCoy wasn’t just a trained psychologist—he was one of the captain’s best friends.
“Got something, Bones?” Kirk asked.
“I sure do,” the doctor said with a slight drawl. “The skin samples we took from under the victim’s fingernails … cellular analysis shows they’re not Draqqi, Jim. They’re Iach’tu.”
Kirk saw Jakol’s mouth fall open. Orisa’s expression was a melting pot of emotions, outrage not the least of them.
“Could there be a mistake?” she asked McCoy.
The doctor shook his head. “No mistake. I double-checked.”
Orisa looked at him, the muscles in her jaw fluttering wildly. “I see,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
McCoy regarded Kirk. “There must be surgeons in this system who could have made an Iach’tu look like a Draq.”
“There are,” Orisa confirmed, though she hadn’t been asked. “Quite a few, in fact.”
“And the rate of cellular degradation…?” the captain wondered.
“Shows that she died early this morning,” McCoy confirmed. “Just as Commander Jakol indicated.”
Kirk absorbed the information. “And at least three planetary transports have left the station since then … so we can forget about the murderer still being around.”
“I’d imagine,” the doctor responded.
Orisa glanced at the corpse. “If it becomes known that an Iach’tu did this, the peace talks could be destroyed.”
Jakol grunted. “Which could be the very thing he was hoping for when he committed his crime.”
The security chief pondered her superior’s remark. Finally, she said, “We need to catch the murderer and see him punished. And we need to do it as quietly as possible.”
“So the talks can go on,” the captain suggested.
“Yes,” Orisa replied, her eyes cold and hard.
But it was clear to Kirk that she was speaking in her official capacity as security chief. Personally, it seemed to him, she wouldn’t have minded a more violent resolution.
“I’m going to contact the authorities planetside,” she said. “Maybe they can shed some more light on this.”
Kirk agreed that that would be a good idea.
Orisa Jilain’s office was small but efficient, three of its walls devoted to a collection of hexagonal screens that continually monitored her station’s public areas.
The fourth wall was a transparent one. It gave Kirk a view of the station’s main thoroughfare, where the captains of cargo vessels stood and conferred with the importers and exporters who were their employers.
For a while, Kirk peered at them through the transparent surface, his arms folded across his chest. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Orisa.
She was sitting behind a foreboding black workstation, plying her planet’s security net for background information on Mani Begron. Her stem expression suggested to the captain that she didn’t want to be reminded of what h
ad happened between them.
He found that unsettling. The time he spent with Orisa had been a lot more than a casual affair. For a while, he had even considered the possibility of staying with her on Draqqana, spending the rest of his life with her.
But young as she was—a year younger than Kirk’s twenty-three, in fact—she had had the sense to send him away. He would never have been happy staying in one place, on one paltry planet, and she knew that.
But he himself couldn’t accept it. So they had met for the last time on the lichen-spotted stone bridge that connected the two halves of Draqqana City, and Orisa had begged the young lieutenant not to try to speak with her again.
Her eyes shiny with tears, her breath a frozen vapor, she had kissed him the way a snowflake kisses the ground. Then she had hurried away, her collar turned up against the wind and the cold.
And Kirk had stood there on the bridge, watching her, until the night took her away from him.
But now, as she sat and stared into her computer screen, she seemed like a different person—hard and businesslike. This wasn’t the Orisa Jilain he had kissed that winter night. At her most stubborn, her most determined, she had never been like this.
Even when she told him she didn’t want to see him again.
“Ah,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Finally.”
“What is it?” the captain asked, coming around her workstation to look at her screen.
“As we discussed, Begron was a key player in the peace talks. In fact, she was the first delegate selected.” Frowning, Orisa studied the screen, looking for something helpful. “When she was younger, she was a musician. She gave it up to become a lawmaker.”
Star Trek: Enterprise Logs Page 11
